“And I had just been accosted by your friend Ian.”
“Formerfriend,” he said. His whole body felt suddenly light again. “Anyway, it was stupid.”
“We’d been drinking,” she agreed. “We were at a party.”
“All kinds of silly things happen at parties.”
Merritt was smiling, too, happy to be pushing through. “Exactly.”
It felt as if the windows had been opened and a light breeze had whisked away their former awkwardness.
She squinted at his face for a moment.
“I must have been pretty tipsy myself,” she said.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
Another beaming smile. “Normally, I would have fled at the sight of that mustache.”
“I am going to ignore that low blow,” he said, turning toward the kitchen, “and make us some tea.”
“Great,” Merritt said. “I’ll have my usual.”
Chapter Nineteen
They were working quickly now, perfecting their arcane, slightly persnickety system of outlining and revising and writing and rewriting. Evie was an enormous help, picking up Annie from school or the nanny share most days and often taking her off on adventures—to the library, the seaside, a whale museum. Whit and Merritt were able to spend more and more time writing each day. They worked from lunchtime on, sometimes writing through dinner or, if Merritt was wanted back at the bookstore, until the absolute last minute before she could leave and expect to make it to work on time. There were endless pots of tea and several more chilly walks in the woods. The fire was always going, and Merritt seemed to be getting comfortable—with Whit, yes, but also with Evie and Annie, with taking a blanket from the antique wooden crate at the end of the couch or finding a snack to munch on in the kitchen. Never, never did they bring up the kiss that wasn’t, and Whit was glad of it.
The first weeks of November passed, and as the days grew colder and a little gloomier, the forest completed its transition into an autumn coat. One day during the week leading up to Thanksgiving, before Whit and Merritt began work in earnest, she made an announcement over her bowl of Italian wedding soup.
“I finished the book last night.”
Whit’s immediate reaction was one of bewilderment and surprise.
“What? Without me?”
He felt none of the relief he expected himself to feel at this moment, and he was more than a little hurt.
Merritt covered her lips with one hand, laughing through a mouthful of food.
“Sorry, I finishedyourbook last night.The Hour of Matins.”
“Oh!” Whit said, understanding cracking over his mind like an egg. Then came the realization of what this announcement implied. “Oh.Should I be concerned it took you a full month?”
Merritt smiled gently and shook her head. “Ishould be embarrassed. I’m just so tired when I finally get a moment to relax.”
“I blame the bookstore. It can’t bethisthat’s exhausting you.”
He spread his hands out, including the room around them in his statement, and Merritt sniffed out a laugh.
“No.” She paused, chewing on a thought and a piece of the sourdough she’d been dipping in her soup. Eventually she explained, her voice more tentative than usual.
“I’ve been making myself write a little, after work. For me.”
Whit’s grin was entirely natural. “That’s great! Your old manuscript? Or something else?”
“A little bit of both. Fiddling with the old stuff and trying some new things, too.”
“That’s excellent,” Whit said, leaning against the kitchen counter. He downed his cup of tea then spoke again. “But wait, you’re writingmoreafter the work we do here?”
